Everything I do is disappointing. I was moving on just fine, Elvis Costello on the radio, when the road curved into a sudden tunnel and the sun blazed out like flash paper.
      Rimbaud said we must get high, lest we start believing in the world. But cigarettes trashed my lungs until I had to quit, and when I drink the porchlight throws fuzz around the house, electric hair. To what world-gristle does coffee wake me?
     I lay these bricks forever, only for the sun to do them in.

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Rimbaud's idea of a good time was to drink poison until he hallucinated, so maybe we can't trust everything he said. Also, it's possible the speaker is confusing Rimbaud with Baudelaire.